


Araluen's Gifted

by PitFTW



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:28:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitFTW/pseuds/PitFTW
Summary: Araluen is home to all kinds of people, including those gifted beyond any other. Follow Will, a fifteen-year-old boy with shapeshifting abilities, as he is apprenticed to the Ranger Halt and discovers what gifts the Araluen Rangers possess and how his can contribute to the Ranger ways.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First in what may or may not be a series. This is just an idea that took root and flowered. It is Ranger's Apprentice... with a small twist. I'm hoping to update weekly.

Jonathan Lovell, outlaw or as he liked to say "wandering bandit", sat perfectly still at the edge of the cobbled road, watching as travelers passed him by. He had been sitting here for hours now, waiting. As the minutes ticked by, he would rearrange his position, stretching out his legs and occasionally giving his arm a good shake, twisting and turning to prevent cramps and to keep himself active. He had been here since night had fallen, patiently waiting and watching this great stretch of road before him.

It was nearly midnight now and the stars were out, twinkling dimly on this moonless night. It was here that Lovell shifted once last time, now moving into a new position this night: crouched low, with one hand on the large sword he had pilfered from the rotting corpse of a freelance not too long ago and the other on the ground, ready to spring upon his target. He had been waiting so long for this time, knowing that if successful, he would be the richest bandit in Redmont Fief.

At first, nothing happened. Lovell crouched and waited, watching as three travelers passed him by: an old farmer wearing a large hat on a knobby, hobbling horse, a young messenger with a feathered cap nearly falling off his horse, and a young couple dressed in plain farmer's garb sharing a tiny, shaggy pony. None of these were his target, and it was with some annoyance that Lovell shifted again, attempting to ease his cramped muscles without breaking his crouch. So distracted was he by the slight tightness in his legs that he nearly gave a shout of happiness when he saw an outwardly plain, yet large carriage crest over the horizon of his line of sight, horse slowly meandering down the road with a gentle _clop clop clop_ of his hooves. The carriage driver was hunched over, hood over his head, obviously asleep.

Perfect.

There was no pause, no warning shout. No, Lovell merely leaped out of the bushes he hid in and sprung forward, sword hissing as he swung it towards the driver's neck. For a brief moment, a mist of warm, wet liquid met him, before the driver's body tumbled to the side and over to the side of the road, where it lay still, covered by the driver's dark traveling cloak. This was the reason why Lovell had yet to be caught; he left no witnesses, never allowed his victims to live. He then reached out and stopped the horse, causing it to still so he could gain access to the carriage.

Eager to gaze upon his new bounty, Lovell dashed over to the carriage and threw open the doors, knowing that the taxes that was to be sent to the baron lay hidden inside. What meant him, however, was the cold, dusty interior of a carriage, not a gleam of gold or a corner of burlap sack inside. Anger and confusion rose in Lovell; what was going on? How did this happen? He had hidden in the village just outside Castle Redmont for three days, listening to the whispers and complaints of the villagers. He had stolen from a young student at the Scribe School a map of the very route the tax carriage would take, bribed (and murdered) two tax collectors to tell him the exact time the carriage would be on this road, then came to it hours before it was due. Everything was planned out perfectly and in absolute secrecy, so why-

An arrow came out of nowhere, burying itself into Lovell's wrist, causing him to shriek as his sword clattered to the ground. Without warning, another arrow came at him, this time striking him in the left calf. With a scream of pain, Lovell dropped to his knees, one hand gripping his wrist, fingers twitching and tearing at the shaft of the arrow, as though attempting to rip it out. His vision blurred and wavered, but any sort of welcoming darkness was wiped away almost immediately as yet another arrow buried itself into his shoulder, pinning him to the wooden carriage.

A figure stepped out of the very bushes that Lovell had been hiding in only minutes before, longbow strung and already nocked with another arrow. Lovell recognized that large hat: it was the farmer on the knobby horse. But before he could glare at the offending archer or even spit at him, another figure walked out from his left, also wielding a longbow: the messenger, whose feathered cap had been discarded for a long, mottled cloak.

His pulse was racing now; Lovell understood what had happened. He had been trapped. Like some naïve child, he had been lured by candy and trapped by the dreaded Rangers of Araluen. They said it was bad luck to incite the anger of a Ranger; Lovell had just angered at least two.

No, four. Lovell's eyes widened as the couple now came into view, with the woman removing her wig to reveal dark hair. When she turned down the collar of her dress, Lovell realized that she was no woman at all, but a man, one with a long, scraggly beard that looked like it had been messily trimmed with a knife. The supposed woman's companion was no better; in fact, he too sported a scraggly beard. As he approached, Lovell saw that the man, now swathed in the infamous mottled green cloak of the Rangers, possessed dark grey, almost black eyes, so sharp and cold that for a brief moment, Lovell forgot about the throbbing pain in his body and shuddered, desperate to look away. However, a powerful hand gripped onto the top of his head and forced him to turn it to, once again, gaze right into those steely grey eyes.

"Are you working for anyone?" the Ranger asked, voice low, yet thick with the underlying threat. The other three Rangers fanned out, backs to this Ranger, longbows at the ready.

"N-No, sir!" Lovell answered. For a moment, this seemed to please the Ranger, as the grip on his hair slackened. However, just as Lovell began to relax, the grip returned and Lovell's head was slammed into the carriage behind him, causing him to cry out as the arrow in his shoulder was buried even deeper.

"That carriage was supposed to be carrying silver," the Ranger stated, as though he were speaking to a child. "And you and I both know what it means to have silver."

For a moment, Lovell was confused. What did it mean to have silver? A small whisper in the back of Lovell's mind, however, brought a memory up to the forefront: his mother had told him a story, one about a certain Baron of a now extinct fief and the horrible beasts he found in his exile to the Mountains of Rain and Night…

"N-No, Ranger! No!" Lovell said, desperation rising in his voice as he rapidly shook his head, fear bubbling up in his stomach as he began to tremble. He needed to get out of here. He was willing to do something, anything, to get away from the ice-cold gaze of the Ranger. "I would never! I'm an honest bandit, I'm-" he swallowed, fear gripping at his throat as he began to thrash, ignoring every sharp stab of pain that went through him. "I'm not a freak! I'm not a freak, like you!"

At this, the Ranger sighed. The fear and loss of blood was now getting the better of Lovell; his vision was beginning to darken. The outlines of the three other Rangers began to waver and wobble. "No, I suppose you're not a freak." He stood. "But… you _are_ making this freak rather late for a very important appointment." Lovell heard no more as the Ranger drew the large knife at his side and drove it hilt first to the side of his head. 


	2. Chapter 1

"Will, you really ought to eat something," young Jenny Dalby, pretty, cheerful and blonde, said as she flicked her wrist, causing one of the sliced pieces of corn bread to lift itself up in the air and make its way across the table, landing easily on Will's plate. Before the boy could react, another flick of her wrist brought over a small scoop of potatoes, a slice of ham, and a generous ladle of gravy, all of which were perfectly placed on Will's plate. Despite picking up his fork, Will paused, staring at the plate in front of him; his stomach was so tied up, knotted in anticipation. He wouldn't be able to take a single bite.

"He's probably just nervous," Alyss said, wiping at her mouth delicately before pouring herself another glass of water. "Tomorrow is the big day, after all."

"Nervousness is dreadful," George piped up shoving yet another spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth. "Once it gets you, you can't talk, can move, can't breathe for a good chunk of it. And then you'll want to just sort of melt into a little puddle on the floor there. Then they'll have to mop you up, which in turn makes you even more nervous because now you know they'll be passing judgement on how you melted and just what a mess you made and then-"

"George? Please don't talk with your mouth full," Alyss said, silver underlying the tall, graceful girl's words. As soon as they left her mouth, George stopped talking, chewing and swallowing his food before opening his mouth again. He then launched into a long tirade about how nervousness over making a mess led to nervousness and losing control over one's abilities, which in turn would lead to something else. However, privately, Will smiled. Alyss' silver tongue, while certainly not nearly as powerful as it could be when she got older, was highly useful in certain situations; after all, it made people follow her orders, so long as they were unable to resist it.

That being said, of course, George was obviously able to resist it, he simply chose to allow Alyss' order to take over – or so he would argue, with charts and tables and explanations he read, and little facts that he learned and remembered all throughout his lifetime. That was his ability: to instantly learn everything and recall it perfectly even years later, making him a natural for Scribeschool, with its books and legal dealings and mountains upon mountains of paperwork.

"He ought to be," Horace said when George ended his tirade for a moment to take a breath, grabbing at another leg of chicken and tearing off the skin with his teeth. "After all, what Craftmaster is going to take _him_ as an apprentice?"

"Horace!" Jenny said sharply, waving her hand so that a napkin floated up and wiped the crumbs and bits of meat off of Horace's mouth.

"We are all nervous, I'm sure," Alyss, ever the diplomat said, smoothly cutting across Jenny before the other girl could say anything else. "I, for one, was barely able to sleep last night. I'm surprised I can still function this morning."

George immediately started talking again, giving Will some time to think – and smile. It was so typical of the tall, beautiful girl to step in before things became nasty, particularly between Will and Horace. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Alyss would enter Lady Pauline's Diplomatic Services; after all, not only was her silver tongue an absolute boon to the Couriers, but she already had more than enough skills to go with it. What was more, he knew that Alyss had spoken at length to Lady Pauline about entering her apprenticeship, and that she had already been promised a place.

Jenny, naturally, would gravitate towards Master Chubb, the cook of Redmont Castle. She was a gifted cook already, having created many of the dishes being served tonight at the Redmont Castle Ward, and had a natural sense for taste, sight, and smell. Her telekinesis would also be a boon to the kitchen, as she could mix and mold and mash and turn and fry and boil all at once, leaving her hands free to handle any other task that would be needed to cook.

Will next turned to look at Horace, who was now digging into a plate heaped with meat and potatoes, which were continually being piled on as Jenny did her best to keep up with serving her wardmates. Battleschool was his top choice, to no one's surprise; Horace was built like a warrior, large and brawny, and had superhuman strength to boot. He was able to easily crumple a metal shield like paper in his hands, and had more than once dented the castle's stone walls from rough housing a little too much. Battleschool would allow him to take the path towards knighthood, a path normally reserved only for sons of noblemen. On top of that, Will thought with a small bit of snark, Horace thought like Battleschool apprentices as well: not too much.

The Choosing was perhaps the most important moment in the life of any young ward, where they would enter an apprenticeship with any of the Fief's Craftmasters and given the same opportunity as those whose apprenticeships were often decided by their parents' influence or by some connection with the Craftmaster. From there, they would be taught the skills needed to become contributors to life in the Kingdom of Araluen and, once they graduated from their chosen school, would then take on the world as adults. The Choosing was only helped if the ward had gifts; a gift would be a boon to a Craftmaster, as more often than not, the gift would greatly help the ward become a truly talented pupil.

"Still applying for Battleschool, Will?" Horace asked between bites. He wiped off the juices from the chicken with the back of his hand, causing Jenny to tut and bring over a small bowl of water and a towel. While Jenny wiped away, Horace continued speaking. "You should eat up more and bulk up, else you'll be hanging around one of the farms for the rest of your life, growing crops so us warriors can eat well and protect those not strong enough to enter Battleschool."

As Horace laughed, Will merely glowered at him. Horace had overhead Will confiding to Alyss his hopes for entering Battleschool one day, and had since then never ceased teasing Will about it. But of course, he didn't do it without cause; Will was a small, wiry boy, strong enough, but not nearly as strong as Horace, even without his gift. Battleschool was meant for the boys that were built like Horace, tall and broad-shouldered, able to swing a sword as easily as they would be able to tuck into a meal. Will was not like that – but he wanted to be more than anything. And if Sir Rodney would see his passion, his need to prove himself, his penchant for hard work, then surely, the Battlemaster would allow him into the school.

"At least I'll still have strength between my ears," Will murmured before he could stop himself, causing the uncomfortable silence that had fallen around the table to thicken all the more. Jenny let out a small squeak of laughter before she ducked under the table, under the pretense of attempting to get her napkin. Alyss, for her part, held her hand over her mouth, as though covering a gasp, though her shoulders shook ever so slightly. George simply kept eating.

Horace's face burned a brilliant red as he stood up, his hulking form towering over the table. However, Will was much faster; he closed his eyes and briefly imagined the forest around him and moss beneath his feet before he was out of the hall, a graceful deer galloping out into the night.

"Run away then, Will No-Name!" Horace shouted after him. In spite of himself, Will found his chest clenching, causing him to only hasten his hoofbeats. He had been left as a baby at the door of the castle ward, with only a blanket and a note saying that his mother had died in childbirth, and his father a hero, and that his name was Will. That was the reason why he wished to enter Battleschool: to become a knight, just like one he had always envisioned his father as.

"Will, come back!" he heard Alyss say, silver lacing each word. For a brief moment, he was sorely tempted; he faltered in his run, wishing more than anything to return to the gentle arms of the tall, blonde, beautiful girl. But the grief within him, the regret for all that he was, tore at him. Resisting the urge to run back to Alyss, Will imagined the sky and the wind instead, transforming into a falcon and flying up into a tree of the nearby forest, intending to spend the night there until the morning and the Choosing came.


	3. Chapter 2

A sudden thrum and rush of wind woke Will from his slumber, the boy letting out a very undignified squawk as he leaped into the air, flapping his wings. Beforehe could move another inch, another thrum and whistle of wind broke the air as something long, black, and sharp embedded itself in the trunk behind Will. Swiveling his head around in the manner that all birds were known to do, Will searched – and found – the offending object: a black-shafted arrow, still quivering where it had struck the bark of the tree. It was mere inches away from a second arrow. Whoever had shot them was obviously an expert archer.

“Do I have your attention now, or would you like to continue dreaming the day away?” a voice asked from down below.

Cautiously, Will peered over the branch, taking care not to expose himself more than he absolutely needed to. His sharp bird’s eye spotted the offending archer down below. Swathed in a clean shirt and plain britches, the man would’ve looked like a common hunter, were it not for the mottled green cloak over his shoulders and the longbow in his hands. Boy though he was, Will recognized the man for what he was right away: a King’s Ranger.

The matrons who ran the ward and the villagers all over the kingdom were suspicious of Rangers. And why wouldn’t they be? They seemed to be a rather dark, shady lot, all of whom had the uncanny ability to move absolutely silently through any terrain and always seemed to appear out of thin air. The milkmaids often whispered that it was because the Rangers possessed a dark and horrible magic - and considering the fact that every single member of the Ranger Corps seemed to possess some fantastical ability of their own, that thought was not too much out of reach. Even as Will observed him, the Ranger seemed to fade in and out of his vision, the strange blotchy pattern of his mottled cloak shifting and shimmering, no doubt allowing the Ranger to blend perfectly into the backdrop of the forest.

But it was no ordinary Ranger, as though there were such a thing as ordinary Rangers in the first place. This was the Ranger Halt, Redmont’s Ranger, said to have a special place reserved at not only the right hand of Baron Arald, but also the right hand of King Duncan himself. He was a legendary figure; the stories told about him still echoed through the halls of Redmont Castle to this day.

“Something interesting?” the Ranger’s soft voice asked, breaking Will from his thoughts. For the first time (and how in the world hadn’t he noticed this before?) the boy noticed that he had an arrow nocked and ready to shoot. No doubt, if Halt had wanted to put an arrow through him, he would be able to – bird or no bird. The fact that Halt had simply shot into the three behind him meant that he intended to call Will’s attention somehow. The method was unorthodox, but it worked.

Will hesitantly flew down from his perch, transforming back into a boy as he landed. He stumbled a bit, but quickly caught himself, panting quietly. He had forgotten how much staying transformed for long tired him out. Were it not for the Ranger in front of him, he would be tempted to lie back down on the ground and take another nap.

“Well, now that I have your attention,” Halt stowed away the arrow and slung the bow over his shoulder as he spoke. When his cloak moved to the side, Will noticed that he had a sort of double-scabbard hooked at his belt.  “I suppose now would be as good of a time as any to tell you that for a boy so nervous about the Choosing, you certainly know how to sleep in.”

 As soon as those words left Halt’s mouth, the realization dawned. _The Choosing_. He was late for the Choosing! Will whirled around and immediately began running, not even bothering to turn into a swifter animal as he ran. How could he do this? How in the world could he do this to himself? His father would be ashamed. Not to mention-

He crashed into a body, knocking the both of them over. So distracted was he in his rush that he did not even bother looking up. Stammering apologies, Will got to his feet, only to let out a shout of surprise. For right in front of him was the Ranger, the very man who Will had left standing out in the woods only seconds before. How did he manage to get all the way over here? Perhaps Rangers truly were armed with black magic.

“Calm down,” Halt chided, gripping both of Will’s shoulders as they recovered themselves. “And don’t go running off blindly like that. That’s how people get hurt.” He removed his hands from Will’s shoulder, but didn’t stand to the side. And from the look he was giving Will, he was silently warning not to run off again. “Now. Before you go running and banging on the baron’s door, you should know that the Choosing is over. You were missed, a small search party was sent out for you, but the baron is a very busy man. Unfortunately… any sort of craft you were hoping to go into has filled up its spots. If you do go back there, you’ll be sent to the fields.”

At this, Will’s heart sank, right along with his dreams of riding alongside the trainee warriors in Battleschool and becoming the hero he knew his father was. For a brief moment, a strange light – almost pitying – flashed in Halt’s stormy grey eyes, but it was only for a moment. The Ranger now regarded the boy in front of him critically, as though looking right into him. And Will simply stood there, staring at the castle, knowing that, at this moment, his wardmates were celebrating their apprenticeships. In particular, he thought of Alyss – pretty, blonde Alyss, who no doubt was smiling and perhaps even dancing, looking as beautiful as ever.

“Do you know what you will do now?” Halt asked, snapping Will from his thoughts. The boy pulled his eyes from the castle to look the Ranger in the eye. What would he do now?

“What do you mean, sir?” Will asked, hating how small his voice sounded. But could anyone blame him? He could not be a hero if he worked in the fields.

Annoyance flashed over Halt’s face. “Why must young people always answer questions with more questions?” he asked a nearby tree before he shook his head and turned back to Will. “What I mean is to ask you your intentions. I’m going to be frank with you. Few Craftmasters will accept a boy who did not even bother showing up to the Choosing, especially he had overslept.”

Will bit his lip and stared down at the grass. The Ranger did not need to remind him of that. He already knew.

“However, I will accept you as my apprentice.”

At this, Will’s head shot up, so quickly that he nearly knocked into Halt’s own. “S-Sir? Your apprentice?”

“That’s what I said,” Halt replied, crossing his arms. For the first time, Will realized, he was able to be relaxed enough to see that the Ranger was not a very tall figure; in fact, many of the Battleschool apprentice warriors would tower over him. But simply from the movement of his arms, the way his trousers and shirt hung on his form, it was clear that Halt was built like a whipcord; strong and ready to spring. “Do ask a useful question next time.”

“Sorry,” Will muttered, trying his best not to drop his gaze from the Ranger’s. In spite of his height, Halt cut an intimidating figure. Not only that, but he was not quite sure about being apprenticed to Halt at all; the grizzled Ranger never smiled, and everyone in Redmont knew it. Not only that, but the rumor that the Rangers had fantastical abilities was not mere rumor; it was very much rooted in fact.

Araluen had long been home to great beings, those who possessed powers beyond the ordinary. Legend had it that a blacksmith had made a deal with a great being thousands of years ago, and gained power over fire as a result. The rest of his village followed suit, and thus were the origins of Araluen’s gifted. But power brought fear and mania with it, and for many of the gifted, it was better to hide their gift; there were some gifted individuals who were insane, through and through. Morgarath was one of them. As a result, the gifted were feared.

The Ranger Corps was no exception. It was rumored that every single member of the Ranger Corps was gifted in some way or form. Not only that, but these gifts were unusual; most were gifted with abilities over fire, water, air, or earth or perhaps with enhanced strength and speed. But the Ranger Corps? It was said that enhanced strength and speed was a rare ability to be had. Elemental manipulations even rarer.

“If it means anything to you,” Halt said, turning around and beginning to walk. Almost mindlessly, Will followed. “The Ranger Corps does not care if you overslept and missed your Choosing… but we won’t tolerate any oversleeping Rangers.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Will. “Think on it.”

It was Halt or the fields. And despite his intimidating figure, Will instinctively trusted him. Perhaps it was his reputation. Perhaps it was his honesty. Or perhaps it was the strong, almost fatherly hand on Will’s shoulder as the Ranger steered him towards a small cabin near the edge of the woods.

“I’ll be your apprentice,” Will said. Warrior or not, a life as a Ranger was better than life in the fields. “Thank you, sir.”

Halt paused, nodding curtly. “Meet me here tomorrow, at dawn. I’ll have a room ready for you. Bring whatever you need.” With that, they reached the door of the cabin, and the warm hand was gone.

“Thank you, sir,” Will said, taking a step back. Though this cabin would soon become his home, he felt as though he should not step in. Not yet.

Halt stopped at the door and turned, raising one eyebrow. “My name is Halt.”

“Alright then. Thank you… Halt,” Will repeated hesitantly, testing the way the name rolled off his tongue. Strangely enough, he liked it.


End file.
